


First Encounters

by pagination



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-18
Updated: 2007-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sort-of round robin of first encounters between the CI team. Covers the show up until Mike Logan's departure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> Written Jan 18, 2007

_**Carolyn** _  
  
They work together once, before the world changes.

His reputation enters the building before he does. "Son-of-a- _bitch_ ," says her Lieutenant to her Sergeant, "--but he's a closer. You should warn her." As initial reactions go, it is more tactful than it might have been; the first words that sprang to his tongue, hastily repressed, were far more robust.

She does not know who he is: does not care or even register his presence, though the ripples of his interference pushes irritation into the faces of the techs around her. He treads like a cat into her crime scene and fills it with an absence of personality, and he is there, attentive, when she narrates her thoughts aloud and listens to them herself to learn what she is thinking. 

Meticulous, she thinks. Organized. He took his time. Efficient. The cuts are shallow, for shock value--

"The way he followed the line of her cheekbone," a voice says, and she does not notice that it is not hers, her mouth moving a half-beat behind with the same thought. "The control--"

"Surgical," she says.

"Precise."

"Sculpting," she realizes absently, stringing the bead of conclusion to the end of the reply. Her fingers move, experimenting with the grip of an imaginary scalpel; finds a satisfactory one in the surgeon's grasp, forefinger flat against the blunt back of the blade, amenable to the finest of manipulation. "Impersonal. He makes the perfect imperfect."

Here," the voice says, and then she is made aware of his presence, that the body is no longer simply her body anymore, but theirs, a reassignment of responsibility that jolts her from her reverie. His head breaks into the perimeter of her concentration, gloved fingers lifting the dead hands to bring them to his nose. He sniffs them; she inhales as well, in sympathy, and is barraged from without by the noise and distraction as the presence of other bodies swings into sharp focus. Living bodies. Other bodies. Shock dissolves into dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction crunches into resignation at the inevitable intrusion of the present.

"Lilacs," he says. He turns the fold of a sleeve up, delicately, and finds the bruise underneath. There is a possessive quality to his hunch over the victim. "There isn't-- there wasn't any perfume in the bathroom."

"I don't know you," she says, challenging his ownership, not his identity, which is in the badge hooked to his coat.

"Goren," he says, still touching the dead.

It rings no bells for her, then. Not even later, when the Sergeant tips stories into her ear, unloading frustration and grapevine scuttlebutt, some exaggerated, most true. "Barek," she says.

"I know."

It is all he gives her, then. She does not ask for more. The pull of the puzzle is more immediate, and his presence is only another variable in the equation. There is something in him that she recognizes and responds to, like an extra weight on her side of the see-saw.

They work the case together. She learns that he swallows knowledge like other people breathe air. He learns that there is a bedrock will under her abstraction. She learns he is intolerant and impatient of slower intellects among his peers. He learns that she deserves respect.

She learns that they are too alike to work together for long. He learns that there is one more cop who will never be his partner.

Politics and jurisdictional squabbling happens above their heads, among men and women greater than them. They solve the case. He moves on.

When she meets him again, the towers are long gone.  
  


 

***  
  
 _**Bobby** _  
  
He asks for directions in the lobby, though the directory behind the reception area tells him all he needs to know. It is not a delaying tactic so much as it is a demonstration of protest, albeit one that matters only to him. The ride up to the floor is short and filled with brass, none of which appear to recognize him: it is only in his imagination, sometimes morbid, that he suspects the reputation that crowds him too close when he turns. They glance at him as he steps out of the elevator, but their gazes do not linger. They have other, more urgent things to do, though curiosity is a besetting sin for all of his kind; from the outside he fits in at least, if they do not look too closely.

The Captain's office is easy to find, the only one occupied by a desk and a singular personality. He proves to be a tall man, grey-haired, almost too elegant to envision in the street. His title is his rightful rank, just as One PP is his rightful place, and this office is his rightful setting.

"So you're Goren," he says from behind his desk. He leans forward to offer his hand, cordial without false friendliness. Bobby takes it.

"Captain Deakins," he says.

"Your paperwork's almost cleared," Deakins says. "Welcome aboard."

"Sir," Bobby says, lacking context for his presence here, already suspicious of the file on the other man's desk. He wills his feet still and forces his shoulders down from the creep up of wariness and uncertainty. His new superior officer has an austerely paternal quality, though it is not directed towards him.

"I take it you didn't have any trouble finding us?"

"Sir," Bobby says again, and: "I requested a transfer to Homicide." He manages to say it without hostility. Mostly.

"You're wondering why you're here, instead."

"I was curious." Besetting sins. He takes the seat that Deakins waves him to. He is capable of making a good first impression, but perversity pushes him into a slouch, spine settling into the chair, elbows open and hooked across the chair's arms. Another gesture of protest, still more meaningless than the last.

"I requested you," Deakins says, circling his desk to lean against its front, one leg drawing up to settle his hip onto its support. "We need another detective. You have a good reputation for closing cases. I don't have a partner for you yet, but we can wait on that until we see how things work out."

A reputation for closing cases, among other things that are less promising. It would be naive to believe that his new superior officer does not know those stories. "I haven't done well with partners. In the past." Self-interest battles with honesty and compromises, hinting towards those reasons guessed at in his file, the complaints inextricably tangled with the commendations. He knows they exist, even without reading his file, or else there would be a lie in the relief with which each commander passes him on to another.

There is amusement in this one's eyes, or what passes for it. "So I hear," he says. As though he hasn't listened at all, he adds, "We'll find someone. One thing about running Major Case," he says dryly, "you can mostly get what you want, within reason. If it's out there at all."

Bobby says nothing, dropping his chin onto the backs of his fingers to consider the other man with dispassion. If he feels an insult in it -- none meant -- Deakins does not comment on it. "Try to believe me when I tell you that this is actually better than a transfer to Homicide," the Captain says instead, with understanding, if not sympathy. "Your jacket says you don't care about your career, so I won't point out that this is a big step up. What you should care about is that we get a lot of complicated and sensitive cases. Cases that need to be closed right. We can use someone with your talents."

"Sir," Bobby says, self-knowledge like lye on the back of his tongue. "There's a lot of scrutiny in Major Case." He means it as an apology, perhaps even an excuse, though it comes out as a warning.

He is astute, this Captain; he can read between the lines. "You let me worry about the politics." An answer for the question Bobby did not ask. "Here, you answer to me. I'll take care of the brass. You just take care of the cases."

Bobby knits his hands and his brows together. Temptation tucks itself in the crease of his lip, and tugs on his heart-strings with eager fingers. "I've done my best work alone, Captain," he says, which means,  _I could do my best for you, if you let me_ .

Deakins says, "Times change, detective." 

Bobby doesn't learn until later that he means,  _I can make you better_ .   
  


 

***  
  
 _**Jimmy** _  
  
He is waiting on his friend when she stalks into the Vice squad room, stride long and springy with adrenaline-fueled challenge. In a room where it is hard to tell the difference between perps and police, both tawdry and more similar than dissimilar, still she draws the eye with a quality of self-possession that stands out against the working girls' chutzpah. What she wears wouldn't fill a kleenex box, but it is the uniform for the unit. For the women, at least: the men have more leeway, being cast as buyers rather than sellers.

Misogyny is not only in the renting, but in the preventing. There is more than enough degradation to spread on both sides of the bars.

"Have you been helped?" she asks him, her voice polite even though irritation has sharpened the angles of her face. She looks him over, and does not betray what she is thinking; the reflection of himself he sees in her eyes is put there by his own ego.

 

"I'm fine," he tells her. "I'm just waiting for--" He nods towards her Captain's closed door, shifting into the coat draped over his arm.

"Does he know you're here?"

"He knows," he says, then smiles a little as a thought nudges at him from behind. "The Irish won."

She studies him with shrewd, cynical eyes. Despite the clothes, she looks completely and utterly NYPD, the indignity of her attire a temporary inconvenience: simply a tool to get from point A to point B.

"Private joke," he tells that look. "You must be Detective Eames."

"And you must be the psychic," she tells him. Though the words could be rude, she delivers them with a wryness that strips them of incivility. She scrutinizes him with a critical curiosity that does not blink before she adds a meditative, "Sir," though he is in civilian clothes and wears no badge.

There is no hostility in her at the recognition by a stranger, or the implication that others -- her superior officer -- have been speaking her name behind her back. Female cops have thick skins, if they survive the field: tough by definition, if they make Vice. On an unbalanced playing field, they can lapse into stereotype, resigned to the limited expectations of their male colleagues.

Detective Eames has chosen other ways to hold her own, without recourse to cliche. He could remember her in a line-up. "Your Captain speaks highly of you," he says.

Her eyebrows rise. "Well, that's a relief. I'm sure he speaks highly of you, too," she says kindly.

It is an invitation for him to introduce himself. He feels his mouth twitch towards another smile. "Jimmy Deakins," he says, and offers her his hand.

"Captain Deakins of Major Case?" She has him identified, then. Her clasp is strong and dry, firm without being competitive. "Would you like some coffee while you wait?"

It has been a long time since he has drank the swill that is customary in squad rooms like this. It will never be long enough. "Thank you for the offer, detective, but I'll pass."

"It usually does," she says regretfully. "Eventually."

He is still grinning when her Captain's door opens.

 

  
***  
  
 _**Alex** _  
  
"She's what?" Alex says, before following that up with a puzzled, "Who?" and then, "How?"

"Where, when, and why," her partner says into the cradle of his fingers.

"I've only got half a shift left," she tells him. "You're on your own with those."

She leaves him at his desk while he tries to decide between smile and frown, bearing her empty tea cup with her as motive in case she is questioned. She runs her quarry to ground in the room that doubles as a kitchen. The girl is tall and thin, awkward in the coltish way that suggests an adolescence not yet finished: girl, not woman, though the badge and the gun that ride bulky and self-conscious on her hip should earn her the latter.

Her back is to the door; she is struggling with the coffee maker. Her nape is long and slim, pale against hair cropped too close to be flattering.

"There's a trick to it," Alex tells that stiff back, startling a glance from the girl. She reaches for and receives the bulky cylinder of the coffee machine, a complicated and expensive Italian contraption that has taken on the squad room mystique of a Rubicks cube. As a hazing ritual for the uninitiated, it is more convoluted than she can be bothered with. "You have to get this lock."

The mechanism clicks, and the machine collapses into component parts.

"Thanks," the new girl says.

"No problem."

"Megan." As an introduction, it lacks the force of confidence behind it. The girl sneaks peeks at Alex from the corner of her eyes, as though a direct look might bring her too far into the forefront. Self-possession without assurance makes for a curious combination. "Megan Wheeler."

"Alex Eames. That's my partner Bobby Goren, out there." The tip of her head indicates the squad room beyond. Wheeler follows her gesture, and takes in the vision of Bobby apparently praying to his stapler. There is an entirely inappropriate reverence to the clasp of his hands and the raptness of his stare.

"Um," Wheeler says.

Perhaps unkindly, Alex does not bother to explain him to her. "You're new," she says instead, emptying old grounds into the garbage. "Ross brought you on board?" There is at least one transfer she knows of that was started under Deakins.

"Yes."

"Your rabbi?"

"Um," Wheeler says again, but does not deny it. The NYPD operates on the complicated relationships between friends, classmates, old neighborhood ties, mentor and mentored. Though there may be grumbles about the new chief bringing in his own indians, they are prompted more by habit than surprise. There are few in the squad who have not benefited from the patronage of a more senior officer at some point during their careers.

Alex runs the faucet to rinse out the container, and hands it, dripping, back to Wheeler. "Well, welcome aboard," she says, stripping off a square of paper towel to wipe her hands dry.

"Thanks." There is honest gratitude in the reply.

"If you need anything, just ask."

Wheeler fidgets. "I think I'll be fine," she says, her first betrayal of independence under the quiet personality. "Thank you, though." Her subdued responses are deceptive: that much Alex knows. Promoted to a new and politically sensitive position, no sane man would bring with him a detective who will make him look bad. She'll be his eyes and ears in neutrally hostile territory.

Maybe.

"It'll take a while for this to brew," Wheeler says, holding the two halves of the coffee machine with a puzzled air. "I think. I can tell you when it's done."

Alex says cheerfully, "I drink tea." She refills her cup with hot water and heads back out to the squad room. Bobby has moved on from the stapler; he is occupying himself by leaving perfect fingerprints on the sticky side of a piece of scotch tape. Any moment now he will go slightly cross-eyed from staring at it too long.

"What, who, and how," she tells him, answering his questioning glance. "Your turn."

 

  
***  
  
 **_Megan_  
**  
She has seen him in the squad room and heard his name in passing, called between aisles to attract his attention -- hey, Mike. Hey, Logan -- both names used interchangeably, depending on the familiarity between the cops. It seems fantastic that she has not paid more attention to him yet, one of the celebrities of the squad, but they are all a bit of a blur, almost all new, almost all strangers. Even the room is a stranger, not in that it is new at all, but in that she has been so rarely in one like this over the past years. She is accustomed to having the entire city as her office; to know that she will be nesting here, however frequent or far the flights abroad, is more unsettling than she expected.

She takes refuge in routine, filling out paperwork and running errands for senior detectives. One step at a time, she figures, and makes flashcards for each detective she meets, out of an excess of well-hidden (she hopes) nerves. One for Harry Jenkins. One for Carolyn Barek. One for Alex Eames. ('2 kills,' she writes next to the name.) One for Bobby Goren. ('?' she writes on the back, and then thoughtfully tacks on a few more for good measure. '????')

After the fourth conversation that stops when she passes, she also makes a card for Captain Deakins. Just because.

She is walking by Captain Ross's office with an armful of files when his door opens, the blinds banging against the glass. "Wheeler. I need you for a minute," he says, leaning out to snag her attention. Beyond him she can see the other man called in earlier, yet another stranger in this squad full of strangers, stamped darkly against the back wall. She has no card for him yet, because they have not officially met.

 

She glances at her desk, still empty and waiting for her, before treading obediently into his office. He makes way for her, closing the door behind them. "You know Detective Logan?" he asks.

"I've seen him around," she says, bypassing explanation of her own reserve and the man's unavailability. Logan's face is hard and closed, and there is little to be read in his wide-shouldered slouch beyond the fact that he does not have good posture. She finds him almost fantastically unprepossessing. He glances at her arms wrapped around the files and then offers her his hand, a demonstration of assholery which necessitates a complicated shuffling while she argues with gravitational pull and loses. The file folders make a break for it.  _Damn_ , she thinks, lunging after them, and gives him her fingertips from a hunch-backed stoop of recovery that she is perfectly aware makes her look like an uncoordinated idiot. "Hi," she says.

"Wheeler," he greets, and does not even bother to offer his assistance.

"I'm fine, thanks," she says anyway.

"I'm partnering you two for a while," Ross says, stationing himself behind the protection and authority of his desk. "Barek has moved on, and you both need partners. He can show you how things are done around here."

She might be imagining the small grimace that slides across Logan's face, but she doubts it.

"Captain," Logan says. "Can I have a word?"

"Later," Ross says. "I need to talk to Wheeler. You two can get acquainted on the road."

"Great," Logan says, and the way he says it lacks enthusiasm.

"Where are we going?" she asks -- for both of them, she thinks -- but her new partner is already ambling out the door, not waiting for dismissal or explanation. Cutting his nose off to spite his face, she supposes, before realizing that of course he must already know. The door opens and closes behind him; the blinds rattle again.

"I should get that fixed," Ross says.

"Captain."

He hears the protest in that one word. "Don't jump to conclusions about him," he tells her, glancing down at a file on his desk. It is thick, the stuff of legends. "There's a reason he's in Major Case. Deakins took a big gamble on him, and he didn't do that just to mess with the brass."

She shuffles her feet. Outside, Logan is standing over his desk in a brooding sort of way, engaged in conversation with Detective Eames. "Um," she says.

The Captain looks at her, his gaze heavy and shadowed, and drops back into his chair. "Homicide's a different kettle of fish than undercover. He can teach you a lot, if you pay attention. Learn what you can from him. Keep your eyes and ears open." It is the closest he will ever come to saying,  _keep an eye on him for me_ .

Knowing what he means, even if he does not say it, is not the most comfortable of things. Undercover in Major Case. Not for the first time, she wonders why she is here, what her particular skill set means to Ross.

There are times in every cop's career when she must choose between the letter and the spirit of the law. "Yes, sir," she says.

 

  
***  
  
 **_Mike_  
**  
"They haven't decided yet," Goren tells them, the first he has had to say on the subject since Deakins left. He is normally not beforehand with squad room gossip, but the question of a new commanding officer concerns all of them to one degree or another. Some more than others.

For instance.

"What do you know about Captain Meyers from the one-nine?" Mike asks the group around the vending machine. Eames is trying to convince it that Canadian quarters are real money. So far the machine is unimpressed.

"Shit," someone else says. "Not Meyers."

"Bad news?"

The grimace and hand gesture is expressive enough to answer all questions. Eames begins digging in her pockets for more change, and comes up with pocket lint. Her partner reaches across and thumbs another coin into the slot.

"Thanks," she says.

"First thing any  _smart_  CO will do is kick your ass back to Staten Island," Jenkins says, making a fist to bash Mike in the arm. This is guy humor, which is to say cruel, unsubtle, and occasionally bruising. Mike retaliates with street wit: the flat of his hand applied to the back of his colleague's bald head. Jenkins' recoil sends Eames's bag of Skittles flying; small, colorful pebbles of fruit flavor roll across the floor, brilliant against the linoleum.

There is a moment while they all look down and stare at the crayola-bright fractals. Then Eames's mouth begins to open and the other detectives scatter, much like the Skittles. "Assclowns," she says, while Goren starts hunting for more change. The elevator pings. Mike steps into it, making his escape with a certain amount of grace, his tread kicking kernels of rainbow colors ahead of him into the car.

He discovers once inside that the car is going up, which is the wrong direction, and that it already has occupants, which is the wrong number of people. Superior officer occupants, which is even worse. Being in the presence of the Chief of Detectives continues to be awkward, even after a year. They share a uniform and a mutual dislike. Mike is unwilling to admit they even share the same gender, though it is an opinion not commonly expressed where other ears can hear. He has learned some prudence on Staten Island.

Mike stations himself at the front of the car and faces forward. "Chief," he says over his shoulder, acknowledging the other man. (He has also learned some manners on Staten Island.)

It is a toss-up for a moment whether the Chief will acknowledge him in return. When he does at last, it is with a grudging pinch to his mouth, as though being forced to say Mike's name causes him lower intestinal pain. "Logan." Having surmounted that hurdle, he adds, "Danny, this is Detective Mike Logan in Major Case. Logan, this is Captain Ross."

The third man in the car has heavy bags under his eyes and a dourness of face that Mike has not found entirely uncommon in the Chief's presence. He also has an afro, which contributes to his resemblance to a depressed borzoi. "Logan," Ross greets. Mike is forced to turn by the introduction, and finds that the Captain is offering his hand.

"Captain," he says, shaking it.

"Deakins brought Logan in," the Chief says. The stress on the first name has the subtlety of a sneeze. "He made some creative assignment decisions. They worked out for him," he adds, grudgingly giving the absent man his due. "Not the decisions I would've made, but they closed cases. I expect you'll want to make some changes."

There are any number of things Mike considers saying, none of which he actually does. As far as inspirational leadership goes, the Chief has the charisma of genital herpes.

It is difficult to tell what Ross is thinking, except in that way where his expression is curiously familiar, perhaps because it is the same one that Mike is wearing. "I'll have to wait and see," Ross says dryly. He glances down to the floor, where a polished orange candy is coyly nuzzling the side of his foot. He shifts his weight to send it pinging off the wall. "It's a little early to tell."

"It'll be your squad, Danny," the Chief says. "You do what you need to do in order to make it yours. Why the hell are there m&m's all over the floor?"

"They're Skittles. We arrested the Gingerbread Man this morning," Mike says. "He fell apart in interrogation."

The Chief glares while the elevator coasts to a stop and chimes to let them know the doors are about to open. Ross does not smile, but he does not frown, either. "Good to meet you, Detective Logan," he says.

"Captain," Mike says, moving to let the other two past him. A candy crunches underfoot; he nudges it into the gap between elevator and floor, sending it hurtling into the dark. And because it will annoy the Chief, he adds, "Welcome to One PP."  
  


 

  
***  
  
 **_Danny_  
**  
He dislikes the man on sight -- even before sight, in fact: on  _sound_  -- which is encapsulated in his ex-wife's description of her new boyfriend. "He's just like one of the Baldwin brothers," she says on the phone, thereby guaranteeing that he won't be able to stand the man. And in defiance of all previous evidence to the contrary, adds, "You'll like him."

"Which one of the Baldwin brothers?" Danny asks, just so he'll know which movies will be forever ruined for him now.

She says, "William," which means very little to him. "The boys adore him."

Which pretty much puts the nail on that coffin.

She isn't that far off in saying that he looks like a Baldwin brother, but he actually looks more like a dead plastic surgeon that Logan and Wheeler worked on a few months back, a reference that Danny's ex has no way of knowing but which satisfies Danny just fine. It makes him a little more charitable towards the man than he might otherwise have been. It does not hurt that Danny is in his dress blues for the funeral, still gloved, still hatted, and that even though Todd looks presentable in a black suit (damn the Baldwins) he has the personality of soggy Wonder Bread.

"Hi," Todd says, after the woman they have in common has made the introductions. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Danny says, accepting the banality on behalf of the NYPD.

Then Todd says, "Funny thing. I mean, I knew we were going to a funeral, but she never said you were a cop. Policeman, I mean. Officer. Not funny 'ha-ha,'" he blunders on, apparently feeling the insensitivity of a joke at a funeral. "The strange one, where you think, 'that's quee--' Weird, I mean." His eyes show briefly white at his self-correction, leaving Danny to wonder exactly what sorts of misconceptions Todd has about the NYPD.

"It's Captain Ross, not Officer," he says. "Major Case."

Todd says, puzzled, "Oh. Oops. Sorry. Major Case?"

"High-profile cases at the discretion of the Chief of Detectives. Robbery attempts on banks, art theft, kidnappings--"

"Oh. Wow. I guess that means you're a busy guy. Captain."

"--Homicides," Danny says pensively.

" _Danny_ ," his ex says.

"Look, I know I'm just some guy you just met, but I really do care for your wife," Todd says, his voice earnest.

" _Ex_ -wife." They both say it together, turning on him with the same frown and the same tone of voice. It is almost like old times, though it only lasts for a split-second before she melts against her new lover, smiling up at him in a way that makes Danny itch to shake her.

Todd blinks. "Sorry," he says, and slides his arm around her shoulders. "Ex-wife, I meant. Wow. This is kind of awkward, isn't it? I mean, funeral, ex-wife, cops, Captain cop--" He smiles engagingly at Danny.

The man has the brains of a rabbit. It is inexplicably cheering.

Danny says, "You're doing fine, Todd," and heads into the church before he accidentally says what he is thinking.


End file.
